


And It's In Your Making

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prison Capitalism, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Soulmate Trope Subversion, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: Sharing a species with his new guard doesn’t mean anything, not really, Shiro knows that. But after these months of loneliness wearing him thin, he can’t help being comforted.It’s a tenuous alliance, his and Keith’s. Shiro wants—needs—to protect it, even if that means catching Haggar's eye.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 75





	1. Welcome Arrow through the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this on and off for a while, and it's not done, but whatever, here's some of it. I think I'm more likely to finish it if it's actually out in the open. 
> 
> Tags may update as I go, but the rating and warnings shouldn't change. Fic title is from "Don't Give In" by Snow Patrol, bc I like crying.

Shiro likes to tell himself that there’s not much as can startle him anymore.

He’s good at adapting. He always has been. That’s a good part of what got him the Kerberos mission, and it’s what’s keeping him alive now that everything’s gone wrong. He’s got a knack for piecing together routines, patterns, expectations. Not the way Matt does, with data and experiments, but on logic-honed instinct.

So there’s not much that can startle him. Not outwardly. Not anymore.

And he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this on a routine not-really-morning, as he shuffles along cuffed to his work shift, except that his mind is so terrifyingly blank lately that he’s got to manufacture things to think about just so he won’t slip out of his humanity. It feels like a real threat, lately. Easy as shucking a soft t-shirt at the end of a long day. Just—fading out. Going on autopilot, steady and thoughtless as the purple lights that never brighten or dim.

So he’s thinking about who he is as a person, and whether it’s good or bad, and whether living like this is making his mind sharper or duller, when he steps into his assigned workroom and halts stiff in his tracks.

He’ll notice the irony later. Right now, he’s only noticing one thing: the human across the room.

It’s not Matt. It’s not Commander Holt.

It’s not a prisoner at all.

The human is in armor, Galra armor, with a knife and a shock prod and a baton all at his belt. His black hair is longish and wild, and his back is turned, and Shiro stands there—dumbstruck, dumbstruck.

One of the sentry bots snaps him out of it with a smack to the face. Shiro reels, catches himself against the doorframe, and scrambles towards a workstation, hoping to avoid an all-out beating. But the human guard has turned at the sound, and Shiro, rash with hope, can’t help looking back at him.

The guard squints a little. Something flits over his features, something almost gentle, before he turns to this sentry.

“This one’s a troublemaker?” he asks. His voice isn’t gentle at all. Shiro pushes down the disappointment that rises like nausea in his throat.

The sentry nods. “He’s the standing arena champion, sir. Sergeant Sutok says it gives him a big head.”

The guard looks back at Shiro. Considers.

“You want me to write him up?” asks the sentry.

“I can handle my own discipline,” the guard snaps. He looks back at Shiro, who ducks his head a beat too late. “What’s your number?”

“117-9875,” Shiro says. He sneaks a glance back up because there’s a sharp relief in a familiarly-structured face and form, even with the armor and the scowl. “Please—”

The guard raises his eyebrows. “Get to your station, seven-five.”

“Sir,” says Shiro. He moves the rest of the way to the workstation, which has two trays of little metal pieces that slot into each other. There’s also a set of boxes, each labeled _100 count_ and ready to be filled.

It’s not a hard task, really. Repetitive, fiddly, but not as bad as plenty of the work details Shiro’s been assigned. Still, his cuffed hands shake helplessly behind his back as he stands in place, waiting to be shifted into the work restraints.

The sentry and the human guard start at opposite ends of the workroom. Shiro’s towards the middle, standing tense, hoping the human will be the one to change out his cuffs. There’s something about the presence of someone from his own species that just goes right to his core, something about it that makes him less blank inside.

Which is a good thing, in plenty of ways, but it hurts more.

He gets his wish, though. And the hands that lock his right wrist into the work cuff, which is linked by a length of chain to the table in front of him, are callused but not cruel. In fact, Shiro thinks they might be shaking just like his.

The guard doesn’t acknowledge him as he secures Shiro’s left ankle, detaches the transport cuffs, and steps away. Shiro searches out his eyes, but no luck.

It’s okay, he tells himself, as he reaches towards his work. He’s got all shift to sneak glances and wonder and try.

Try what, exactly, he doesn’t know.

The sentry finishes the last cuff change-out and salutes the guard, who rolls his eyes—his eyes, his _real eyes_ with irises and pupils and a hint of a epicanthic fold just like Shiro’s—but salutes back. Shiro fumbles with two of the pieces, trying to figure out how they slot together without having to look away from the guard. The chain attached to his wrist clanks awkwardly, adding to the jangle from all the other prisoners as they begin work.

It’ll be annoying as hell within half an hour, but Shiro can adapt. He can deal. He can do anything, anything, as long as he can stay here on this new assignment with the human guard.

He finally figures out the connection between the two pieces and dumps the completed pairing into the first empty box, reaching for a new set. A quick scan of the room tells him he’s being slow as hell; a lot of the others have four or five done.

Well, damn. He’s already been threatened with a write-up this morning, and it’s maybe ten minutes into the shift. The human guard wasn’t clear on whether he’d actually punish Shiro for—well, for stopping in the doorway, which was literally all he’d done—but if he doesn’t pick up speed and make quota, there’ll definitely be some kind of consequence.

He’s just so distracted. So—startled.

Once the sentry is gone and the door is shut, the guard runs a hand through his hair. Shiro slots his second set of pieces together and wonders about the guy’s name. It might be a Galra name, given that he’s a Galra guard, but all the same…

He reaches for a third set. He’s not catching up to the others. He’s never been good with those 3D puzzles, which are exactly what this is like, so he keeps flipping the pieces the wrong way two or three times before managing to remember how they go.

Do the guards have nametags? There’s definitely a couple patches with writing on them on the uniforms, at least sometimes, and Shiro’s starting to be able to puzzle out the Galra script. Maybe if the guy gets close enough—

“Seven-five!”

The guard’s caught him looking. Again, Shiro ducks his head too late.

The guard crosses to his workstation, frowns at the paltry two sets in his first box. “You know the consequences if you don’t make quota, don’t you?”

Shiro does know. There’s a mandatory pay cut, which grows in percentage with repeated offenses. And the guards are authorized to add to that as they see fit. Casual blows are par for the course, but he could get a write-up for a more formal beating as well, or a stint in solitary. He could get privileges revoked, too, if he had any.

But Shiro also knows that this guard’s tone is—like his hands—not cruel. In fact, he would almost swear he hears a hint of compassion.

“Yes sir,” he answers, and slots together his third set.

“Hurry up, then,” the guard says.

“Yes sir,” says Shiro. His hands aren’t so obedient, though. They’re still shaking, making him clumsy, and Shiro tries to take a steadying breath but the air is full of a human smell, that salt-sweat and warm skin smell he hadn’t known he’d missed, and the guard is still so close.

He’s so lonely that he wants to cry.

“More important things,” the guard mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself.

“Sir?” Shiro dares.

“None of your business, seven-five.” Finally, he steps back a little. “I don’t want to have to warn you again.”

Shiro nods. His gaze flicks to the printed patch on the guard’s shoulder, though—just a quick check, to see if he can puzzle out the word. To see if it’s a name.

Hard C.

Long E.

“Seven-five!” The guard snaps, before Shiro can recognize the last symbol.

“Sir,” Shiro mutters. He turns back to his work, tries to fall into a rhythm amid the jangling of the chains.

The day trickles by. Shiro works as fast as he can, but at the mid-shift break he’s still significantly behind. He could work straight through, try to catch up—but he’s so tired that it doesn’t seem worth it. Instead, he sits down at his station and leans against the workbench behind him, his cuffed right wrist straining a little at its chain.

The human guard stands by the door and keeps watch. Shiro, hungry for attention, can’t help watching him in turn.

Kee—

As he watches, squinting at the name badge, he cycles through the alphabet to guess what that last unrecognizable letter might be. _Keeb, Keed, Keef, Keeg_ , all the way through to _Keew_ and _Keex_ and _Keey_ and _Keez_. But nothing sounds familiar, and Shiro is forced to admit that it’s probably just a Galra name after all.

The food cart comes through. Shiro buys himself a water packet and sips at it absentmindedly; the guard pulls a nutrient bar of some kind from his pocket and munches away. Shiro wonders why he’s still here, since usually there’s a change of guard midway through shifts. Maybe someone’s late? Or maybe it’s some kind of hazing ritual, putting new recruits through the same long workday as the prisoners.

Shiro’s not about to complain, though. He likes this guard, and not just because of their shared species. Kee-whoever hasn’t hit anyone, not once in the whole stretch of hours. And sure, that’s not unheard of, but it’s rare enough that Shiro wants to hold onto it while he can.

Not that it’ll prevent consequences when he inevitably fails quota.

Shiro sucks out the last of the water and wrinkles his nose. Maybe Kee-whoever just doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. He’s known those kinds of guards, and they aren’t really any kinder at the end of the day.

He tilts his head back against the workbench behind him and closes his eyes. He’s being stupid and he knows it, getting his hopes up like this. But there’s a stubborn part of him, an idealistic part, insisting that if he could just talk to this human, something would happen. Something good.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s because of the faint salt-sweat smell above him. The guard is above him, brow furrowed. His irises are purpley-gray, Shiro notices—a weird color, a little unnerving, but also beautiful.

He wonders if the guard sees anything beautiful in him.

“Seven-five,” the guard says.

“Shiro,” blurts Shiro.

And then he flinches instinctively, but the guard doesn’t hit him. Just kind of stares, bewildered by the correction.

“Keith,” the guard finally responds.

_Keith._ Of course—and an Earth name, after all. Shiro fights back a traitorous smile.

Keith goes on. “Uh, I’ve scheduled you for a medical exam.”

Shiro blinks. He had an exam maybe a month ago, best he can guess, when he and the Holts were cleared for work detail—before the arena, before the separation. The only other times he’s had any access to medical care have been emergencies.

“Why?” he asks.

Keith shrugs. “Routine concerns.”

Shiro knows a lie when he hears one.

“I need your fingerprint,” Keith goes on, holding out a datapad. “To confirm that you’ve been notified and that you understand the terms and conditions.”

“I don’t understand the terms and conditions,” Shiro says. Pushing carefully. Testing the boundaries. “I can’t really read Galra.”

Keith blinks at him in turn. He opens his mouth to say something—

And that’s when the work whistle blows.

Keith sighs. “We’ll talk later,” he says, and goes to make sure all the prisoners are getting up, returning to their workbenches.

Shiro hauls himself to his feet, too. At this point, he probably can’t catch up enough to make quota, but he can at least keep busy trying while he worries and wonders over what Keith wants.

The stubborn part of him keeps insisting, though, that it must be something good.

\----

Shiro’s the only one in the whole workroom to get his pay docked.

He feels guilty about it, honestly. Keith seems to be new on the guard roster, and Shiro wonders if his own poor performance will be a mark against Keith’s competence. He doesn’t want that. He wants Keith to stay.

But it’s over and he can’t change it now, so he just straightens the boxes he did manage to fill and waits to have his cuffs changed out so he can trudge back to his cell. He’s hungrier than usual, or maybe just more in tune with his body, and he has some leftover credits from his last arena win. Maybe he’ll indulge tonight, get something extra to motivate himself to do better tomorrow.

But when everyone else has been shifted into the transport cuffs and lined up to file out, Shiro’s still chained to his workstation. The sentries escort the rest of the prisoners out; a new set of sentries clunks in to collect the boxes of completed work and take them to whatever phase is next in making whatever it is these pieces are part of. And Shiro is still there. Keith is too, but he won’t meet Shiro’s eye.

When the boxes are all collected and wheeled away, the noise of the next shift’s crew being escorted towards the workroom echoes in the hall.

Shiro panics for a second. Maybe he’s being given two consecutive shifts. He doesn’t know if he can do that. He definitely can’t do it _well._ And he’s hungry, and Keith—

Keith steps towards him. Changes out his cuffs. Still gently, too, and without a word. Then he takes Shiro by the arm and steers him into the corridor, heading away from the cells.

Are they going to the arena? He usually gets advance warning when he’s going to have a fight, but he wouldn’t put it past the Galra to change that up. There’s no cheering, though, no roaring crowd, so that theory seems implausible.

Shiro hates this. He hates not knowing, not being able to prepare. He jinxed himself, he realizes, thinking this morning about how he wasn’t getting surprised so much anymore. He shouldn’t have trusted that.

He shouldn’t trust Keith, either, but he wants to.

They keep walking, taking turns Shiro doesn’t recognize, heading up an elevator for a few levels. It’s hard to keep oriented; everything looks the same. He wishes Keith would talk to him, would tell him what’s going on. And yeah, maybe he could get away with asking, but the fear’s so engrained in him by now that he can’t get words into his mouth.

He should probably hate who he’s become, he thinks. How he keeps his head down, how he flinches and panics. How he barely thinks about escape anymore, contenting himself with the promise of an extra water packet or a thin blanket rented for the night. How he’s all but given up on the Holts.

The loneliness has faded him, worn him down like an old kitchen rag or a pair of tired shoes. And Shiro doesn’t always even have the energy to hate it.

Beside him, Keith stops, and Shiro stops too. A door slides up at the press of Keith’s palm.

It’s one of the guards’ breakrooms, he realizes as he steps in. His breath catches. He’s been places like this a couple times, and it was always for bad reasons—punishments his supervisor didn’t want to bother with a write-up for, mostly.

Keith wouldn’t, he thinks faintly. Keith wouldn’t, would he?

The breakroom is deserted. They’re the only two people there. Shiro’s hyperventilating now, hating himself for freaking out even as he strains for air. Keith wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but Shiro doesn’t actually know that. He can hear it in Matt’s voice: _where’s the evidence? what’s your sample size?_

Keith pulls up a chair and sits Shiro down in it and Shiro just stares, frozen and scared, horrified at how he hoped that this would be okay, would be better.

“Hey,” Keith says, and he’s speaking English. “Hey.”

Shiro gulps in a breath. “Sir,” he says.

Keith finds another chair and sits down, too. “You don’t have to be scared,” he says. “I just want to talk to you. You said you didn’t actually understand the terms and conditions for the medical exam, so I thought I’d—explain, I guess? Like I know a lot of guards are lax about that but technically it’s part of our job. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Shiro, because there’s not really another option but also because Keith’s speaking _a human language_. It doesn’t mean anything, not really, Shiro knows that. But he can’t help being comforted.

“And I also had some questions.” Keith looks away a moment, like he’s nervous too. “But first, yeah. I’ll give you a quick summary of the terms and conditions thing. I can read you the whole document if you want, but it’s pretty boring.”

He flashes Shiro a wry grin.

And damn it, Shiro hasn’t been smiled at in—a long time. Since the Holts got taken, at least, and even before that there wasn’t much to smile about. Matt tried to keep their spirits up; they all tried as best they could. But it was hard going, and in the last few weeks there’s been nothing at all.

So yeah, Shiro hates himself for it, but he starts crying. He can’t even hide it, either, because his hands are still cuffed behind his back.

“Sorry,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of keeping most of the tears back. “Sorry, yeah. A summary is—good.”

Silence. He can feel Keith watching him.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Please, I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” blurts Keith.

Shiro opens his eyes again. The tears tumble shamelessly down his face.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Sorry.”

Keith bites his lip, concerned. “There’s no cameras in here,” he offers quietly. “You can—uh. Are you hungry or anything? Those shifts are long as hell.”

“Some water would be nice.” Shiro bites his lip too.

“Sure thing,” says Keith. He gets up and fishes around in some kind of container along the wall, eventually pulling out two water packets and two nutrient bars. Then he squints at Shiro for a moment. “Are you right-handed?”

“Yes,” says Shiro.

“Okay.” Keith comes around behind him and fiddles with his cuffs, freeing his right hand and attaching his left to the chair. “There, okay. I don’t wanna violate protocol too bad, but that should work.”

He sits back down and holds out one of the water packets. Shiro takes it, noticing that it’s cold. He hasn’t had cold water since he got taken.

“Thank you,” he mutters. He’s still crying a little, which is embarrassing as hell, but at least now he can stick the water packet in front of his face and pretend to have some dignity.

“Sure,” says Keith. He pulls out his datapad, types for a minute until the right screen comes up. “Uh, so the medical exam is routine. To have the appointment confirmed, you’ll have to assent with a thumbprint, like I said. When you do that, you’re acknowledging that any data from your appointment may be used in research, that the medcenter team can consult your full records including any disciplinary writeups, and that any prescribed treatments are at cost to you.”

Shiro sips his cold water, relishing the way it feels in his mouth. “I just had a medical exam when I was cleared for work detail,” he says carefully. “They didn’t tell me there’d be a follow-up.”

Keith shrugs. “Sometimes they forget.”

“What if I don’t?” Shiro dares. “If I don’t give you my thumbprint.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Keith squints at him. “It’s just a medical exam.”

“Just say I didn’t,” says Shiro.

“The appointment’s already in the system,” Keith says. “I can’t delete the request. So uh, I guess you’d be penalized for noncompliance.”

Shiro can feel his breathing start to quicken again. He hides it by sipping his water again, by avoiding Keith’s gaze. “I don’t need a medical exam,” he says, when he can steady his voice a little. “I—I don’t want to go back there. I don’t understand why I have to.”

Keith avoids Shiro’s eyes, too. He opens a nutrient bar, shoves half of it in his mouth at once—wasteful, Shiro thinks, but then Keith probably has access to as much food as he needs. Shiro can hardly remember what that’s like.

“It just doesn’t seem routine,” Shiro says, finally. “Sir.”

Keith swallows his mouthful of nutrient bar. “You’re right,” he says, and his purpley-gray eyes come up to Shiro’s. “It’s not. But I can’t explain yet.”

Shiro sighs. “What’s the noncompliance penalty?”

“Minimum penalty is a write-up for a level three beating.” Keith sighs. “That’s, uh, level three is the twenty-minute slot with—”

“I know what the levels are,” Shiro interrupts. He’s angry now, wondering why this medical exam is so important to Keith that it’s worth threatening a relatively serious punishment, and he’s kind of tempted to be contrary just to figure out what the hell is going on.

But it wouldn’t be tactical. It wouldn’t be worth it.

“Fine,” he says, when he’s emptied the water packet and set it on the table that’s in reach. “I’ll assent.”

Keith visibly relaxes. “Here,” he says, once he’s pulled up the form on the datapad. “This box.”

Shiro presses his thumb down on the screen where indicated. It flashes green and pops up some kind of message, which Keith exits out of.

“Thanks,” says Keith. “I’ll explain later, I promise.”

Shiro just nods. He’s tired, and he’s probably missed the food cart, and this is just another thing he can’t control. Another thing that, no matter how angry he is, he has no power to change.

“Here.” Keith holds out the other nutrient bar. “Sorry, I ate in front of you. That’s rude.”

“Doesn’t rudeness only count if it’s towards someone who counts as a person?” Shiro blurts.

Keith flinches. Shiro flinches too, reflexively. He shouldn’t have said that but he’s so tired that he’s losing his filter, losing his sense of self-preservation. And he’s angry, too, and lonely, and still kind of vaguely hoping that Keith will turn out to be a good person who cares about him, and angry again at himself for hoping such dumbass things.

But Keith still doesn’t hit him. Doesn’t yell.

“You do count as a person,” he says. “Shiro, I—just eat, please.”

And Shiro’s more hungry than he is stubborn, these days.

So he takes the nutrient bar that Keith is still holding out. Unwraps it, nibbles at a corner. He can’t risk upsetting his stomach by eating too fast.

It tastes really good, he realizes. Fruity, more like Earth flavors than most of the stuff he gets. He likes it a lot, which he’s bitter about, but he can deal with that later.

Keith picks up the rest of his own nutrient bar, making a visible effort to match Shiro’s slow pace. He passes Shiro the second water packet, too, and Shiro’s not super thirsty anymore but he’s not about to turn it down. They sit quietly, almost companionably, almost like two regular humans having a snack together after a long workday.

Shiro’s still cuffed to the chair, of course, but he’s gotten pretty good at ignoring that.

“How soon is my appointment?” he ventures, when he’s down to the last two bites of his nutrient bar.

Keith spins the datapad towards him again, displaying what must be some kind of calendar. “So I took my work roster schedule and filtered it down by your ID number,” he says, pointing things out on the screen as he explains. “This is today; we got off shift at six a.m. shipboard time. You’ve got another shift in this block here, and then a fight in the middle of your next rest period, which sucks, but the medical appointment is right after the end of the arena slot. That way we can take care of first aid and then go into the exam.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says. He only grimaces a little. Having arena time cut into his sleep is awful, but having it in the middle of a work shift is arguably worse. There was that time he finished a fight, still bloody and plummeting off an adrenaline high, only to get dragged back to eight more hours of cleaning waste buckets, for example—and it does not rank among experiences he would like to repeat.

“Sure,” says Keith. He hesitates, fidgeting with the hilt of his knife while Shiro finishes his food and water. Shiro wonders about the knife; the baton and shock prod are standard issue, but the guards don’t usually carry knives. Sometimes a gun, but the shock prod is usually enough. Shiro’s even seen it be lethal once or twice.

“Shiro?” Keith says.

Shiro drags his thoughts away from paths they probably shouldn’t take and sets his empty wrappers on the table, then looks up at Keith.

Keith sighs. “I should probably let you get some sleep, huh. Long-ass day.”

“Whatever you want, sir.” He’s still kind of thinking about the shock prod.

“Okay.” Keith stands up, his weapons clanking against his armor, and stretches for a second. “Uh, is there anything else you need first?”

There is so much that he needs.

“No sir,” Shiro says.

Keith frowns for a minute, then just shrugs and comes around to shift Shiro’s cuffs for transport. Shiro cooperates. Then they leave the breakroom without throwing away the trash and wind back down to the cell blocks, where Keith takes the cuffs back off and locks Shiro in.

His cellmate squints at the noise of the door, but grunts and curls back up without complaint. Shiro settles down on the opposite side of their tiny space, his brain still spinning.

_You do count as a person,_ Keith said.

And it’s conditional, it’s got to be conditional, but Shiro’s ready to do just about anything to fulfill Keith’s conditions as long as he can.


	2. What If This is All the Love You Ever Get?

When the fight’s over, Shiro admits to himself that a medical appointment won’t be so bad.

He’s not quite in emergency condition, as far as he can tell, but he’s definitely worse off than he was last time. Something in his left foot screams every time he takes a step—broken, maybe—and his opponent’s acidic spit is burning through his thin jumpsuit in a hundred places. Plus his shoulders are basically just one massive bruise, decorated with a few deep claw swipes.

Not emergency condition. The sentries are still making him walk, after all, rather than dragging him through the corridors. But Keith said something about first aid, so Shiro hopes at least they’ll tell him if the acid is going to leak through his skin somehow and fuck him up worse over time.

The sentries push him just as he sets down his hurt left foot, and he stumbles. The adrenaline of the fight has started fading out; he doesn’t feel like he can move any faster.

And then he sees a shock prod come out and it turns out he can.

The agony of putting weight on his foot is exhausting, but he manages to keep up a pace that satisfies the sentries, which means he doesn’t get shocked. By the time they reach the medcenter, he’s pretty pain-dazed, ready to collapse even if it’s onto some horrible cold metal table.

The door slides up and the sentries push him one last time. Shiro stumbles into the room.

It crosses his mind that the witch could be here, that being taken to her has been classed as medical appointments before. But he’s too out of it to really process what that would mean, and the only voice he hears is—Keith.

He can’t tell what Keith is saying, really. But it’s nice to know he’s here. That he didn’t send Shiro to his appointment all alone.

It’s hard to be alone, he thinks, as he sways on the spot and tries not to draw attention to himself. The sentries and Keith and someone else are doing paperwork. Hopefully that means that Shiro’s all checked in to his appointment and they won’t have to punish him for noncompliance.

Would they punish him if he fell over before they finished? Shiro isn’t sure. If they did it probably wouldn’t be a level three, so maybe it’d be worth it. His foot really fucking hurts and he just wants to curl up on the floor.

“Thank you,” says Keith at last, and the sentries salute and leave. Shiro dares to look up. Keith is really there. Still human, too, just like Shiro remembers. Next to him stands a tall Galra that Shiro has maybe seen before.

“Get him onto the exam table, please,” says the tall Galra. “We’ll do a scan to assess any immediate medical needs and then—”

Shiro sways worse, catches himself on his bad foot. Groans.

“Exam table, right,” Keith says to himself, interrupting the tall Galra. He slips an arm around Shiro’s waist and guides him over, then lifts him so that Shiro doesn’t have to clamber up onto the table.

It’s nice. It’s really nice. Keith is still real and still human and his hands are still kind. Shiro curls up on his side, resting his head on the cool metal surface. It’s not as bad without the witch here.

The tall Galra gets out a scanner. Keith stays close to Shiro—not touching him, because why would he touch a prisoner when he doesn’t have to?—but close. Shiro can smell the humanness around him, masking the chemical smell of the medcenter.

It’s nice. He closes his eyes, lets the tall Galra’s quiet commentary on his injuries wash meaninglessly over him.

Time floats.

“—acid, Ulaz?” Keith is saying.

“Yes,” says the tall Galra. Ulaz. Shiro connects the name, even though everything is fuzzy and strange. Did they give him a sedative without him even noticing? “There’s an antidote—cupboard—”

The words fade in and out. Shiro doesn’t mind. They uncuff his hands at some point, but they don’t secure him to the table.

Weird. But he’s too hazy to be much of a threat anyway. He feels baby-weak, limp. Like he probably couldn’t walk to the door even if it burst open just for him.

That’s a rescue thought, he realizes. Bad. He tries not to have those.

But the haze of his brain is making him all softly sad and hopeful, so he frowns and digs through his thoughts for a replacement.

Keith?

Keith is a soft thought too. Keith gave him food. Brought him here. Keith is—Keith has pretty eyes. Human eyes. He wonders how Keith got here. It’s not easy to go to space. Lots of school. Lots of training and practice and tests. Shiro tried really hard and he got to go and—

And well, now he’s here.

Keith, though. If Keith was associated with the Galaxy Garrison, wouldn’t Shiro know? Or maybe he was born up here. Maybe first contact was far, far longer ago than anyone thought.

“Is it broken?” Keith’s voice drifts through again.

“Yes.” Ulaz sounds frowny and Shiro squirms a little. Is he in trouble? He doesn’t want to be in trouble. He doesn’t want to be bad.

“I’m not authorized,” Ulaz goes on, and then Keith is yelling. Blood rushes in Shiro’s ears. Yelling means he was bad, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what he did. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

Shiro shakes, scared. He doesn’t want to be bad, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want—

Something starts beeping rapidly. The yelling stops.

“His heartbeat’s going nuts,” Keith says, quiet now. “Shiro? Shiro, hey.”

Shiro forces himself to uncurl enough that he can look up at Keith.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks. He reaches out, puts a hand on Shiro’s bruised shoulder. Not to move him anywhere, just—to touch.

Just to touch.

Shiro draws in a trembling breath and leans into the warmth of Keith’s hand. “Sorry,” he says. He’s too tired, hurting too much to explain.

Keith frowns at Ulaz. “There’s got to be some way around it.”

“Keith,” says Ulaz. “This is enough of a risk as it is. Giving him unauthorized medication will only increase that risk. If you cannot bear in mind the more important things at stake here, I will ask you to leave.”

“I don’t need it,” Shiro interjects, struck with anxiety at the prospect of Keith being sent away. He tries to sit up. “Please, I—”

Ulaz fixes him with a cool glare. “Do you need to be restrained, seven-five?”

Shiro lowers himself back down. “No sir,” he mutters.

“Are you sure?” Ulaz says. “We’re going to set your foot. If you kick, we’ll have to put it on your record.”

“I won’t kick,” Shiro says. “Please, I promise.”

“Very well,” says Ulaz. “Keith, hold his shoulders. We’ll take care of this and then get into the research.”

Shiro wants to ask what research they’re talking about, but he doesn’t want to be restrained, so he keeps his mouth shut and does his best not to panic even though research usually means the witch. Keith’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him, and that helps with the panic a little. Still, Shiro closes his eyes. If he keeps looking at Keith, he’ll get his hopes up too much, and that always makes it worse in the end.

When Ulaz picks up Shiro’s foot, Shiro can’t help whimpering. But he stays still, stays breathing, waits—

And there it is, the bright pain, the sickening noise of shifting bone. And there, too, is the darkness.

When he comes to, his whole body feels heavy. The pain’s less, but that only makes it more tempting to let himself drift. It’s nice, he thinks, when his brain is gray and full of nothing. It’s nice to be less afraid.

“Do you think it’s going to work?”

Keith’s voice. Shiro squints one eye open.

“Well, I’ll have to figure out how to isolate and recreate the hormone.” Ulaz sounds thoughtful. He’s holding a small vial, peering at it. “And of course, it won’t give you more prominent Galra characteristics the way your current treatment was supposed to. But the rest—yes, it should work for that, I’d imagine.”

“That’s what really matters anyway.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. “If I get discharged from service, I’ll figure out something else. Some other way to help. It’s not like I’m doing much good here, anyway.”

Shiro’s breath catches without his permission.

No, he thinks. No. Keith is—Keith is doing so much good; Keith is the only good thing there is anymore. If he leaves—

But that’s not what Keith cares about, Shiro reminds himself. Shiro’s a prisoner. He’s nothing to Keith.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Ulaz says. “Get him off my examination table, please. I’ve got work to do.”

“Sure,” says Keith, his voice easy. “I’ll see you later.”

Ulaz just grunts and Keith shakes his head, moving towards Shiro. Shiro opens his eyes the rest of the way.

“Your appointment’s done,” says Keith. “I’m gonna take you back to your cell, okay? Your foot should be safe to walk on.”

Shiro flexes his foot a little as he sits up. It twinges, but the pain’s mild enough to be bearable, so he eases off the edge of the table and presents his hands behind his back for the cuffs. It’s silly, but somehow he can’t shake the feeling that maybe if he complies, if he does everything he should, then maybe Keith won’t leave.

Around his wrists, Keith’s hands are warm.

“Come on,” Keith says, once the cuffs are on, and nudges Shiro in the direction of the door.

Shiro goes. They leave the lab behind and trudge down the corridors, step after step on Shiro’s sore foot. Keith doesn’t say anything more, and Shiro doesn’t dare ask.

At the door of his cell, Keith uncuffs him. “Your work shift’s in three hours,” he says, before he locks Shiro in. “I’ll, uh. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” says Shiro, and then he corrects himself. “Yes sir.”

Keith peers at him for a moment. Then he shrugs, hits the panel, and watches the door slide down.

Shiro doesn’t sleep much. He tries, but the pervasive chill of the cellblocks is seeping into him more than usual, and no amount of huddling in on himself seems to dispel it. And he keeps thinking of Keith, too: of the warm hands around his wrists, of the gentleness. And that only makes him think of Matt, of how they’d hold each other in the early days before they were separated.

And then—Adam. No, Shiro tells himself, no, but the memories won’t let him be. There was a day, once, an afternoon when they packed lunch and went out into the desert, when they soaked up sun and sank into kisses, when everything was warm red rock and cool water—

Shiro hides his face in his hands.

It’s half comfort and half torment, he thinks, remembering what he can never have again. But knowing that the bits of comfort he has now can’t last—well, that’s maybe just all torment.

By the time his work shift comes, he still hasn’t really slept.

\----

The morning is a blur, painfully slow. The set of pieces in front of Shiro have to be screwed together, and his hands are shaking so hard that he drops nearly every screw he picks up at least once.

It’s been a long time since his muscles have had any treatment. He’s been trying not to think about it, trying not to think about how long he’s got left before the degenerative disease takes hold enough to get him killed. But it’s harder to push that from his mind when he can barely get his fingers to cooperate with a simple task.

Keith doesn’t scold him, doesn’t stop by to remind him about quota. He does watch closely, though, his gaze soft. Shiro finds some strength in that—strength enough, at least, to keep on his feet. To keep trying, no matter how many screws escape to roll across the workbench onto the floor.

It’s when he’s crouched down searching for his latest runaway that the door opens. Shiro startles, knocking his head on the workbench above him; out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of alarm across Keith’s face.

Three sentries file in. They salute Keith.

“We’ve come for prisoner 117-9875,” says the one in front.

On the floor, his hand outstretched above the screw, Shiro freezes.

“Where’s your paperwork?” Keith demands.

“High Priestess Haggar sent us,” the sentry says, as if that’s an answer.

Haggar.

Shiro’s outstretched hand closes slowly so his nails can dig into his palm, so he can feel something, so he can try to feel here and real and maybe like he didn’t just hear what he heard.

Oh god, Haggar.

But Keith doesn’t so much as flinch. “And do you have documentation of that?”

The sentry hesitates. “The high priestess—”

“Can do as she pleases, of course.” Keith glares. “But there are those who would abuse her name for their own gain. Do you have documentation?”

“No.”

“Fine,” Keith says. “You three stay here and supervise. I’ll escort 117-9875 to the high priestess myself, just to be sure.”

He stalks over to Shiro, nudges at him with the toe of his boot. “Come on, you heard that. Get up.”

For a long moment, Shiro thinks that he won’t be able to, that Keith will have to kick him to get him started. And he doesn’t want that, but it feels like the only way, and the screw is still there on the floor, he hasn’t picked it up, he should put it back in the box before he goes, he should—

Keith bends down towards him, puts a hand on his arm to pull him up. And that warm touch, that lack of overt violence, is enough.

Shiro gets to his feet. He stands shaking at attention to have his cuffs changed out, and then he lets Keith escort him out of the workroom.

They move through the halls quickly, almost at a run. As they get into what Shiro recognizes as the science and medical wing, Keith takes a different turn and thrusts open a door. It’s a storage room of some kind, Shiro realizes once they’re both inside, catching their breath from the sudden exertion.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says. He’s got his hand against the door, like that simple gesture could stop anyone else from opening it. “I—I wanted to give you a moment, I guess. That’s why I hurried so much. I can’t imagine this summons is a pleasant surprise.”

Shiro shakes his head silently.

“And things have already been rougher than normal, probably.” Keith doesn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. “Hey, look. If you think it would help, I’ll give you a short stint in solitary for once this is over. I know you haven’t slept much, and at least that way you wouldn’t get thrown right back into work. I can make up some bullshit reason. Is that—I know it’s not great, but should I?”

Shiro hesitates.

“I know it’s not great,” Keith repeats. “I just don’t know of a better option.”

“I just,” Shiro forces out. “If I—if you did that, would I still be on your work roster after?”

“Yeah, you would.” Keith bites his lip. “Should I try and get you reassigned? Is that what you want?”

“No!” Shiro bursts out, then flinches and lowers his voice. “No, I—I was worried that if I missed a shift they’d move me. But if not, then do it. Please.”

“Okay.” Keith moves a little closer, puts a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “And I’ll see if there’s anything else I’ll be able to swing for you, okay? So make it through this. For me.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, and he almost feels like he really can.

It’s harder to feel that way once the massive door of the witch’s lab slides up, revealing her magic vials and robed attendant. In the center of the room is an examination table, some foreboding equipment hovering nearby.

Shiro trembles so hard he can barely stand.

“I have brought the prisoner,” Keith announces. “117-9875.”

The attendant sweeps towards them. “Who are you, half-breed? If it weren’t for your scent and your armor, I’d think you a prisoner yourself.”

Keith inclines his head—an admission. “I supervise the workroom to which the prisoner is assigned. I wanted to ensure he was delivered securely.”

The attendant grunts. “And so you’ve done. Get back to your duties.”

“ _Vrepit sa_ ,” Keith says, and salutes.

He does not spare Shiro a last glance as he goes. Shiro knows he cannot, knows it is too risky, but it hurts all the same.

The door slides down and thuds closed. The thud echoes in Shiro—his heartbeat, he realizes distantly, but it feels like some crushing hammer of despair, locking him in over and over and over.

The attendant grabs him and suddenly his despair is rage.

Shiro kicks out, landing his heel solid against some bony part under the hood, and scrambles towards the door. The attendant’s still down and there are no sentries, so no guns. Shiro’s hands, bound behind him, feel frantically for the door mechanism.

And so he sees it coming.

Sees _her_ coming, the witch, with a snarl in her throat and bolts of purple energy already flying from her hands. He ducks—

Rolls—

And it catches him anyway, the searing energy of pain. Shiro clamps his lip between his teeth and tries to focus on that, tries tries tries tries tries.

It doesn’t work. It never works.

Once he screams, the lightning lets him go. He squeezes his eyes shut but lets his jaw hang slack, as if more access to air will somehow make things better. His muscles are limp. Aftershock cramps will start to shudder through them soon, though, even if he doesn’t get another blast—he remembers that too well.

Make it through this, Keith said. Make it through this for me.

Robes swish near him. Shiro squeezes his eyes tighter.

“Stand.”

It’s the witch’s voice. Haggar. Shiro’s only been brought to her a few times before, but even if he lives to be old he’ll hear her in his nightmares.

Make it through this, Keith said.

Shiro pulls himself up. Feet planted, shoulders back, head down.

Haggar peers at him. And it’s probably the aftershocks, or at least mostly, but some part of him is sure that her gaze just hurts like that—like a blow.

“Your guard is attentive,” she says.

Shiro’s wrists shake against his cuffs. He says nothing.

“He is more of your blood than of Galra.” She waits again. When he doesn’t respond, she snaps her fingers at the attendant. “Get the subject on the table.”

“Of course, priestess.” The attendant doesn’t give Shiro any chance to resist or cooperate, just hauls him across the room and slams him down onto the slab of metal. Shiro tries to smother the groans that impact shocks out of him, but it’s not like anyone’s paying attention anyway. In a matter of moments, he’s out of the cuffs but firmly fastened to the table with his arms at his sides.

At first, that’s the worst part of it—the tight restraints, the anxiety. The attendant takes a few blood samples, which isn’t fun but at least it’s over quick. Shiro wonders if it was even worth kicking up a fuss and getting himself blasted.

Probably not. It so rarely is, if he’s honest with himself. Even when it does turn out that what he was resisting was something way worse than normal, it’s not like he’s ever been _effective_. He’s never gotten himself out of anything by fighting back against the Galra, and many times he’s made his life far worse.

At the same time, compliance—

Well, there’s something painful about that, too, even if it doesn’t leave him with aftershock cramps.

Shiro sighs and shifts as much as he can, trying to ease the pressure in his seized-up right shoulder. Off to the side, Haggar mutters an incantation over his blood samples; the vials glow.

“Have you located the compound?” her attendant asks, when the glow subsides.

Haggar scoffs. “It’s a simple hormone. Associated with males of the species, from what I can tell of its function. What would Ulaz want with such a thing?”

So that’s why he’s here.

Shiro swallows hard. It’s clear now that whatever Keith brought him to Ulaz for wasn’t totally above board. And now Haggar’s found out, and someone—probably Shiro—is going to pay for it.

“Perhaps it’s associated with increased strength,” the attendant proposes. “And if so, perhaps Ulaz wishes to synthesize it in order to give the prisoner an advantage against your beasts in the arena.”

“If he thinks he can defeat my best creations with one hormone from a primitive species, he is a greater fool than I took him for.” Haggar pushes the blood samples at the attendant and sweeps across her lab. “No. There is something more involved.”

Bizarre as it feels, Shiro agrees with her. Increasing his testosterone levels, assuming that’s in fact what’s being discussed, could theoretically give him a boost in the arena, but why synthesize a hormone on the downlow when getting him some extra food or sleep could provide the same advantage at a far lower risk?

But he can’t see why else it would matter.

Haggar paces for a while. Shiro waits, shivering and aching on her table; the attendant makes notes.

Make it through this, Shiro tells himself again, and he shuts his eyes and lets himself picture Keith. He shouldn’t, he knows that. Keith’s a guard, a Galra, however human he looks. And what’s more, Haggar—

He might be making it up. His mind’s hardly sound anymore, so he’s got to remember that it maybe isn’t real. But sometimes it feels like she’s in his head, her claws digging through memories like a spade through soil. Letting her know how much he values Keith feels dangerous; revealing that Keith was involved in Ulaz’s research feels like treachery.

It’s a tenuous alliance, his and Keith’s. But Shiro wants to protect it.

So he has to stop thinking about it. Has to stop thinking about Keith, about Ulaz, about any of it. She’ll hear him thinking somehow. She’ll know.

He has to _stop_ —

Shiro feels his breathing go rapid and shallow. He has to stop. He has to leave. He has to—he has to calm down; he can’t let her know that he’s scared all of a sudden like this, or more scared at least.

He’s always scared here.

Haggar is still pacing. He’s aware of each of her footfalls as though his body is the floor she steps on, as though the eerie swish of her robe is brushing over his skin. It’s too much. He can’t _do_ this, he can’t—

Breathe, Shirogane, he tells himself, but he can’t do that either. He can only pull at the restraints, letting them dig into his wrists, and try and try and try and fail.

Come on, he orders himself more sharply. Breathe. You know how to do this. You’ve _taught_ people to do this. What’s wrong with you?

He doesn’t know. Haggar’s steps are so loud, and his own hyperventilation is so loud, and he’s never freaked out like this on the table before, not when nothing was happening. In his cell, sure, but then he had enough privacy to deal with it a little better. But in the lab, he’s only panicked when something was going on, a test or an interrogation or something. And that was bad, but this is worse somehow, because he’s not getting any reaction. Haggar and the attendant, they’re just—working. Thinking. Ignoring him.

Shiro wishes they’d hit him. It’s dumb, he knows it’s dumb, but at least it’d be something other than just waiting. Something he could deal with. Something in the moment, to take his attention off knowing so little about his future.

He pulls up against the restraints, harder this time, and then slams his head back down on the table.

It helps. Things feel sharper, more clear, and the jolt gets him to take one deep breath at least, which is better than none.

It helps, and yet he’s ashamed he’d even thought to try it.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell there, because the noise got Haggar’s attention. Shiro’s breathing quickens again as she sweeps towards him with one clawed hand outstretched.

She’s going to blast him again, he thinks, in a numb kind of terror.

But she doesn’t. Her hand just sort of hovers over his right arm, which—he realizes, as he tunes back into his body—is still cramping hard from the aftershocks.

She stares at it a minute, then turns to her attendant. “Call the sentries to take it away. I am finished here.”

From there, it’s routine. Out of the examination restraints, into the transfer cuffs. Down the long corridors with their dim purple glow. Keeping pace with the sentries to avoid getting shocked.

He made it, he realizes, when the sentries leave him uncuffed in a solitary cell and the numbness recedes a little. He made it, just like he told Keith he would. And in the end it hadn’t been that bad—if he hadn’t fought at first, he wouldn’t have gotten blasted, and other than that it was just some blood samples. Not that bad at all.

Shiro sits down on the floor, then changes his mind and curls up into a ball instead. There’s a nagging shame inside of him, a sense of just how broken he must be to panic when really everything was fine, but he’s too tired to feel it all now. He’s too tired, too, to resist imagining Keith beside him, murmuring comfort as Shiro fades off to sleep.

He’s too tired.

Shiro hides his face in his elbow and lets himself drift.

**Author's Note:**

> demenior approves of this work :))


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